Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night
by FlowerChild17
Summary: So, I don't generally like the time-traveler Beatle stories. Which is why I'm writing one, to make it as interesting and original as possible. Zanora Elva Hendrixon has been time traveling all her life since her late parents left her with their secret. She chances upon an electrician named George in Liverpool, who is part of a struggling band named the Quarrymen. ATU/Beatles.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey there, FanFictioners. Here's a new story. It's a story that has bits of ATU and Beatles. I'm generally not a fan of the time-traveler stories, but that is why I'm writing one - to make it as original and interesting as possible. :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Across The Universe or the Beatles. **

* * *

**BLACKBIRD**

PROLOGUE

The air in the room was layered with pale mist, obscuring its corners: the yellow light from the single lamp in the corner filtered through the mist, diffused, and threw itself upon the many things crammed into the room. On the bed lay two long shapes, about the same size as human bodies, carefully covered in white cloth. A young pre-pubescent girl sat on the floor in the middle of the room on top of a worn carpet, staring at the patterns on it. A little faded with age, they were, but the memories behind this carpet were as fresh as ever: this carpet had been purchased from Africa, many years ago. Of course, to her, years were nothing - merely waters through which to navigate, in any direction she wanted. For she had been taught that art by the two people who lay lifeless on the bed.

Zanora Elva Hendrixon traced one of the patterns with her index finger. Her nails had been painted black. She'd been sitting on a different floor on top of a different carpet just yesterday, pondering which colour of nail varnish would best suit her newly acquired ring - a rather striking one, a burnished silver band with ancient blackened runes engraved upon it. One might have thought that it was a nice imitation, the kind a young girl might be interested in, to be sold at a tourist gift-shop. This one was real. And it wasn't even ancient - indeed, it had been lifted right out of the time when it had been made, brand new. In the twenty-first century - where she had only lived for the first four years of her life, before her parents deemed her old enough to take along on their 'travels' - it would have been invaluable.

This ring, however, was of no value compared to the beautiful ring that lay on top of the sheets that covered the dead bodies of her parents. Elva only thought of it as beautiful because she knew of its power. But it only appeared like - indeed, it only _was _- a plain wooden band. There were words written on it - one might've thought they were painted with blue paint, but Elva knew that this was the true nature of the ring, the beautiful blue that always revealed itself when the ring was used - used to move through time.

The single most important thing her parents possessed. It was this ring that allowed them to move through years as they pleased. Elva - for that was what she'd always been called - drew back the sheet that covered her mother's face. Peaceful, the lines that had earlier begun to appear now washed away by her passing, Amira Elva Hendrixon's eyelids were drawn over the eyes that Elva remembered as the most beautiful she'd ever seen - the same jewels of the blue writing that was on the time-travelling ring.

In her last dying moment, Amira had fumbled with the tiring fingers of her left hand to pull of the ring from the middle finger of her right hand. She pressed it into her daughter's hands, telling Elva that she must use it, ordering her to put it on. 'Put it on!' she had urged, even as her voice weakened, it expressed the extreme urgency. Elva had obediently put it on, but as soon as the moment had passed and she had said goodbye and covered her parents' bodies, she had torn off the ring, repulsed by its contact with her skin. She had no right to wear it. It belonged to her parents. She knew how to use it - she'd seen them do it enough times - but she would not, _could _not. It was not hers.

The room was small, the only stable thing she'd known since the age of four - every few months, between going from one place to another, they would come back to this little room. It held all their worldly possessions, save those they chose to carry with them on their travels. But it would not do, Elva thought. She had to be calm, practical. She could not keep this room. She must move on.

Elva got up from the carpet and carried the bodies away. Nearby, there was a river. They would like that - like to be forever moving. They had, after all, chosen to travel for all their lives. They were not part of a secret society, nor were they on a great mission - they just liked to travel. Elva had inherited that love of traveling - living in the moment. Enjoying the ride. But now she must fend for herself - she would have to see how that would work out. They'd left plenty of money, along with the years of experience they'd drilled into her. She would manage.

Elva watched the ebb of the river carry their bodies away, side-by-side, not letting the water separate them. Then she returned to the room.

She could do anything she liked now.

Elva turned and saw her part of the room: there was a narrow bed, and many posters on the walls. Jimi Hendrix. Bob Marley. Pink Floyd. They were all there. The music of those decades - ones that she'd only briefly visited, because her parents weren't much interested in them - she would go there. She would see those, the heroes of her world. The gods. The ones that built the love of her life: music. Elva lived it, drank it. She would go there.

But where? They were spread out over Europe and America - she wanted to see them all.

Where could she possibly start?


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night**

**Chapter One: Girls from the Past and Knights in Shining Armour**

Leah turned around in a circle and surveyed her new apartment.

It was only one room with a kitchenette and bathroom, absolutely, completely empty, except for a couple of dust bunnies lurking in the corners and a couple of worn traveling bags in the middle of the room. Leah sat down, cross-legged, on the not-too-clean floor, and took from the secret pouch in her backpack a photograph of Zanora Elva Hendrixon. A young girl with caramel skin and black hair looked back at her. She was maybe ten or twelve. A girl from the past. Leah remembered that girl. She would always be a part of her.

Then she looked at the next photograph, of a girl named Fayne Pattie Wilde. Fayne Pattie Wilde was an exact replica of Zanora Elva Hendrixon, aged by a few years: she was the girl that Elva had turned into. Fayne Pattie Wilde had chosen her name because she thought it was striking and fitted Fayne's character: bold and outgoing. Ready to take on the world. Her dark eyes looked out straight into the eyes of the camera. She, too, was a girl of the past.

Next was Aurora. Aurora's was a brief existence: her brown eyes sparkled and her face, a little older, a teenage girl matured, was the only one in all of Leah's photographs that smiled. That was till the source of Aurora's happiness faded, and Aurora was quickly replaced by Korra, another brief-lived character whose dark, brooding nature glimpsed out of the photograph. Korra wore her hair so that it fell over her face, almost hiding it, as though she wanted to block the world out. Leah felt a glint of sadness at Korra's sad face: Korra was never happy, nor did she make others happy: she stuck to herself and isolated herself with self-pity and depression.

And then came the character that Leah liked best: Stevie. Stevie was a struggling New Yorker who strip danced for a living. She didn't particularly like her job, but it earned her money and she liked to dance, even if she wasn't the best dancer. She braided coloured beads into her hair and had all the fun she could - that is, till her landlady threw her out for not paying rent.

And now she was Leah. Leah smiled at the last photo. Stevie was the first really _mature _person Zanora Elva Hendrixon had been - on the verge of her seventeenth year, she had finally managed to fend comfortable for herself, without occasionally depending on the few friends she made on her way. She had liked being Stevie - named after Stevie Nicks, of course - because she'd sometimes tried to sing _Dreams _like Stevie Nicks in the shower. Maybe someday she'd actually go see Woodstock. Leah reflexively reached to touch the wooden band on the index finger of her right hand. It was possible. Oh, she _definitely _planned to see Woodstock. For Leah Andrea Blaise had many, many plans.

The first was a ritual. Leah took out her father's vintage SLR and moved to the window of her new apartment. She placed the camera on the ledge, knelt in front of it and pointed the lens towards herself. She pressed the shutter button a couple of times. Leah sometimes wondered if she was schizophrenic - she reveled in inventing new characters for herself, but always took a photograph of that character, as a record.

Well, Leah was now officially recorded. Leah put away the camera and traipsed through the streets of Liverpool. When she returned to her apartment several hours later, she was struggling under the weight of a mattress and several bags. She shoved the up the stairs with some difficulty - no, a hell of a _lot _of difficulty. Slumping against the banister on the third landing, Leah cursed. _Now would be a good time for my knight in shining armour to show up. _Zanora Elva Hendrixon had had a bunch of knights in shining armour over the years, but she never got in close with any - only Aurora engaged in a serious relationship, that storybook thing called _love_, and look where _that _landed her. Leah was following Stevie's rule book, for the better part: date and sleep with as many guys as you want - she enjoyed that - but don't kid yourself into thinking anything is 'true love'. Like any teenage girl, she dreamed about it. But it looked pretty unlikely to her.

Zanora Elva Hendrixon was innocent still. She would learn soon enough.

Leah did not encounter a knight in shining armour on her struggling ascent. She did encounter a crabby old lady who was trying to let her cat out and found her doorway blocked by a solid mattress. 'Sorry, I'm sorry,' snapped Leah crossly, giving the old woman a death glare as she shoved the mattress up the stairs, letting the gingery cat out. She might as well have been cursing the woman from the tone of her voice, but that, Leah decided, was it: Leah Andrea Blaise did not take shit.

Okay, she could take a little shit, if it was worth it. But otherwise, _no. _

She the mattress fall with a flat _thump _against the floor and kicked it till it reached the wall. A quick dusting of the room - Leah hated dirt - and then she laid a couple of sheets on top of the mattress, with some cushions. Then she delved into her bag again and brought out her beloved scented candles - jasmine, vanilla, apple, lemon grass and aqua, all shapes and sizes - and put them all around the room, the only other furniture other than the mattress and a lamp. She hung up her clothes in the cupboard after giving the shelves a cursory wipe - reveling in the neatness and organized-ness of arranging her things in an orderly fashion - and put her few belongings around the room. Then she showered, lit all the candles, and lay back on her mattress.

This was pretty alright.

... till she encountered a cockroach on the wall.

Beginning. of. the. end.

Leah was petrified of cockroaches. She could be a pretty hardy character when she liked, but cockroaches she could not, not, _not _deal with. Nor could any of Zanora Elva Hendrixon's various characters.

Cursing her weakness, Leah tiptoed barefoot along the corridor of the apartment building, and cautiously rang the bell.

No answer.

The next floor was the crabby old lady's door and another apartment that looked uninhabited. Next floor. This one seemed alright: she could hear music pounding through the door. Leah pressed the doorbell, which made a pleasant _ding-dong _sound, and held her breath, praying that the cockroach hadn't disappeared someplace under her mattress or in her bags.

The door opened. A tall, gangly boy peered out from under a thick mop of hair. 'Yeah?' he said in a typical Liverpudlian accent.

'Um. I live upstairs, a couple of floors,' began Leah, feeling stupid. 'I just moved in.' He nodded patiently. 'And, um, there was kind of a cockroach on the well and ... uh ... I hate cockroaches, so, I was wondering if somebody could get rid of it for me.'

The boy - well, man, really - raised his bushy eyebrows. 'Sure thing.' He shut the door behind him and nodded for her to lead the way. Leah opened the door to her single-room apartment. He looked around it with open curiosity, though in such a frank way that Leah didn't mind, and then said, 'Where's the little devil?'

Leah pointed to the wall. The boy blanched. He shrugged a shoe off one foot. 'This oughta kill it,' he declared, and smacked the wall.

The bug leaped off the wall and he jumped backwards with a small yelp, brandishing the shoe and grabbing Leah's arm. 'Um, sorry,' he muttered, colouring. Leah giggled. He was just as terrified of it as she was.

'Oh my god, it's coming!' she squealed, pointing to the floor where the horrific thing was marching towards their feet. She dragged the man back and they jumped up onto the refuge of the slightly elevated mattress.

'That,' he pointed to a bowl next to the mattress, which Leah had just emptied of potato chips. 'Give me that.' Leah handed it to him, wide-eyed. Then, in what she saw as an act of pure heroism, he clapped the bowl on top of the cockroach, effectively trapping it. Her knight in shining armour had arrived! 'Yeah!' he yelled, and they high-fived. Then, the elation of victory fading, the boy looked suddenly shy. 'I'm Leah,' Leah offered, holding out one hand to shake. The boy shook it. 'George,' he introduced himself. 'George the noble cockroach-slayer.' He beamed proudly, then added, shyly, 'And guitar player for the Quarrymen.'

'Guitar?' said Leah, instantly interested.

'Yep.' George grinned proudly. 'Wanna hear?'

There was an ominous flapping sound from the bowl. 'Let's get someone to get rid of that first,' said Leah, shuddering.

George looked pale. 'Right. Get rid of the cockroach. Let's do this.'

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**Was it too cryptic? Zanora was the girl from the prologue, and she's basically the same girl taking different names in different parts of her life. PM me if you don't get it. Review and tell me what you think. Thanks for reading :) -Jen. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for the reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night**

**Chapter Two: Storms and Strange Birds**

****~LEAH~

It was storming.

Leah didn't mind that, as storms made her feel even safer inside the apartment. She liked hearing the rain hurl itself against the window. That was, till the electricity zapped off.

'Dammit,' she cursed, grabbing a matchbox and flaring a tiny flame into existence. Korra had loved the dark, but Leah hated it. She didn't always mind it, but since the cockroach episode yesterday, she wasn't taking any chances. She peeped out of the hallway: the rest of the building had electricity, so why didn't she?

There was a list of emergency numbers taped to the back of the door. Feeling spooky, Leah read them by candlelight and dialed the number that would fix her electricity problem. This is the part where the ghostly moaning comes out of the other end of the phone, she thought, twisting the curly wire around her index finger.

Less than ten minutes after Leah set down the receiver and sat down on her mattress to wait the storm out in the darkness, there was a knock on her door. She put one eye to the peephole and saw, to her surprise, George, the guy who had helped her out with the cockroach the day before. She opened the door. 'Need an electrician?' he said, holding a flashlight under his chin so that it threw eerie shadows on his face and giving her a crooked grin. She raised her eyebrows. 'You're the guy they sent to fix it?'

'That's me. I'm an electrician. Guitar is just part time.' He held up a screwdriver. 'Looks like the wires just tripped up. Lemme see ...' He flipped open a panel in the wall, twisted a couple of wires around while she shone his torch for him to see, and in a couple of minutes the lights were back on. Leah blinked in the sudden brightness and then killed the torch light. She handed it back to George. 'Thanks. If the roof caves in tomorrow, will you be the guy to fix it? You know, since you've helped me out of two scrapes already.'

George laughed. 'Nope. Tomorrow, I'll be performing with ma band.' He grinned delightedly. 'Gigs aren't so easy to come by when ya don't have a drummer! We got this one guy to fill in tomorrow.'

'What do you guys play?' asked Leah, feigning curiosity. She already knew exactly what genre the Quarrymen's music fell under and she knew all about their drummer dilemma - and their difficulty in getting good gigs in the beginning.

'Rock and roll!' exclaimed George, his eyes lighting up. 'Like Elvis!'

Leah could tell that he was practically exploding to speak about this subject. 'What all are you guys playing?' she asked casually.

'Well we're doing a couple of self compositions and Be-Bop-A-Lula and Heartbreak Hotel,' rambled George, waving his hands expressively, 'and maybe a couple of others, we haven't decided yet, and we have a new bass player Stu - he's alright - and we might be getting a tour at the end of the month!' George stopped and caught his breath. Leah nodded interestedly. 'That's nice,' she said. She walked over the door and waited beside it. George glanced at her and took this as his cue to leave. 'Thanks,' Leah said, grinning. 'You saved me twice, from my two biggest fears: cockroaches, and darkness, because cockroaches love darkness.'

George laughed. 'Hey, do ya wanta come hang out downstairs for a bit? You can meet the band!' he said eagerly. Leah looked at his excited face and then said, 'Sure.' Why not?

Three floors down, George stopped in front of a door. Several pairs of men's shoes were thrown haphazardly on top of the muddy doormat, interspersed with a couple of girls' shoes with wicked-looking high heels. Somebody had made a lipstick kiss-mark on the door. Loud music pounded from behind it, with raucous shouts and laughter. Leah hung back. She was feeling that shyness that had plagued her the only time Amira had tried to enroll her in a normal school. (Which was a total fail). George looked at her. 'What?' he asked.

'I think I'll skip it for today,' said Leah, stepping back. 'Maybe tomorrow.'

George shrugged. 'Sure,' he said. 'See ya.'

* * *

~GEORGE~

George watched Leah go back up the stairs. Her bare feet didn't make any sound on the steps. She stopped for a moment next to the window, letting the rain and wind batter her and actually looking like she enjoyed it. She sure was a strange bird.

Interesting, but strange. George thought he'd best stick with the simpler girls. This one was so different - and he wasn't sure if she was his type. Leah - firstly, what sort of a name was Leah? It didn't make sense. And she clearly wasn't from Liverpool ... Nobody could hit that shade of caramel-brown in Liverpool, where the sun basically never shone. Her hair was poker-straight: now, most girls would've at least put their hair in curlers to make it curly, because wasn't that what they all did? Wasn't curly hair supposed to be the thing? Leah obviously was not familiar with Brigitte Bardot's influence, George concluded wisely: girls all wore tight jumpsuits, short dresses, high heels and loads of make-up, just like their role model Bardot, and guys loved it. Then there shows up this weird chick with poker-straight black hair - though it did look kinda soft and nice, George mused - wearing strange jeans that hugged her legs real tight, and a top that left her shoulders all bare except for thin shoulder straps. She was completely barefoot, except for the toe-rings on her feet - George had never seen a girl wearing toe-rings - nor had he seen that number of beaded bracelets or rings on any other girl's hands. And she'd turned down the invitation to hang out with the band. Now, girls just fell all over the Quarrymen. Okay, not so much when they had to play in shitty clubs all squished up on stage with no drummer. But otherwise, skiffle groups sure were girl magnets. Leah just randomly turned down the invitation. It didn't look like she was doing much in her apartment, was she?

And then there was that - the apartment. What could a teenage girl be doing all alone in a new apartment of her own? What was her story, where was she from? Why would she choose to stick herself in Liverpool, anyway? She only had a mattress and a couple of candles in her apartment. George kind of liked the way it looked - it was kind of interesting - but still!

She was interested in the music, though. That was good. She'd even asked what all they were going to play. Hmm.

George walked into the apartment he shared with his mates. Meg, George's latest girlfriend, was waiting for him with a drink in her hand. Her blonde hair was styled to perfection, and that dress - George grinned inwardly, it suited her body nicely. He pecked her lips and accepted the drink. Well, tonight they'd all drink a little, then they'd go out for dinner and more drinks and maybe dancing too. Then he'd come back here with Meg. Tonight would be like last night and the night before that and the night before that.

Maybe Leah would need him to stamp on another cockroach.

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**Thanks for reading :) Review! -Jen. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for the reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night**

**Chapter Three: Happiness, Crappiness, and Spaghetti **

****~LEAH~

It was one of those mornings when Leah woke up and just felt happy.

She lay staring at the ceiling which had the beginnings of sunlight creeping up to it, trying to trace the reason for her utter contentment. It was a dream, she thought - but the dream had erased itself, leaving nothing but a vague, untraceable happiness. Oh, well. Leah got up and went to the bathroom to get ready: today she was going to get a job. A real, proper job, because she didn't like to deplete her savings too much. Stevie had been a strip dancer. It paid enough, too - Stevie had been pretty comfortable where she was - but Leah didn't want to strip dance anymore. Besides, being a stripper in a sidey strip club in the back alleys of Liverpool, early sixties, was much less safe than being a strip dancer in a big, well-known strip club in the 2008 in New York.

Leah threw a tie-dyed bedspread over the mattress on the floor and then put on her black boots and went out of the door, humming _No Woman, No Cry _to herself. Today was definitely a big start.

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~GEORGE~

It was one of those mornings when George woke up and just felt crappy.

He lay staring at the ceiling of his room; his head felt slightly woozy when he moved it. The after effects of last night's alcohol? He didn't remember drinking _that _much ... He rolled out of bed and groaned as his head whirled. George paused, kneeling on the floor, debating whether he should just get back into bed again, but Meg had shifted to take up his side of the bed, too, and now there was no pushing her back. Unless he woke her, which he wasn't so keen on doing ... Besides, he had work too. Maybe he could get ready and then crash out on the couch downstairs. Oh, wait, John was probably crashed out on the couch. George decided to get ready anyway. Maybe a bath and a cup of tea would make him feel better.

Mistake. The geyser was not working, so the water was icy cold, and the weight of his wet hair added to the headache. George decided that that cup of tea would be useful just about now. Downstairs, standing in the empty kitchen, George was completely dumbfounded by the realization that he _wasn't hungry_. That, that now, had to be trouble. Food was the top priority of George's morning. He was _never _not hungry. Something was wrong ... He had a cup of tea, groaned loudly to the sleeping apartment - curse those lucky art school bastards, John and Stu - and then stumbled out of the door.

And nearly bumped into Leah, who was coming up the stairs.

She jumped lithely away just in time, and George blushed, embarrassed by his clumsiness. She didn't seem to mind, though. In fact, she looked happy and breezy, like something really _good _had just happened. 'Morning,' said George. Leah beamed brightly. 'Hey!' She stopped and then looked concerned. 'Are you okay? You look kind of peaky.'

George made a face. 'Not so good today, I guess.' Leah frowned, then stepped forward and lightly touched her fingers to his forehead, under his mop-topped hair. Her fingers were cool and gentle. 'You're burning up,' she exclaimed, withdrawing her hand. 'Really high fever, I think.'

George groaned. 'What do I do now?'

'Skip work,' she advised seriously. 'Do you feel weak?'

'Kind of,' muttered George. 'My throat hurts. And my head.'

'Sounds like some kind of viral,' said Leah thoughtfully. 'You should probably have a medicine and get some rest.'

'Oh.' George looked back to the door unwillingly. Behind that was Meg, and he didn't feel like lying next to her, because then she'd want to cuddle, and if he told her he didn't feel like cuddling, her blue eyes would fill with hurt, and then he would feel guilty and apologize and then he'd have to cuddle with her, when really he only wanted to lie flat on his back and die. George considered kicking Paul out of his bed. He realized that he'd been silent for a long stretch of time and that Leah looked like she was questioning his sanity. 'It's just, I don't really want to go back in there,' he admitted, cocking his he

'She's a little clingy,' said George defensively, stumbling a little under the weight of that arched eyebrow.

'Why are you still dating her then?' she asked.

George shrugged. 'She's pretty.'

'You can come up to my place, if you like. I have to go somewhere for a bit, but you can sleep there.' George hesitated; it was a tempting offer, and Leah did not look like the kind of bird who'd invite him to her apartment just to shag him. Plus she said she was going somewhere, right? And his head was spinning ... spinning ... spinning ...

'Yes, if that's alright,' said George, holding on to the railing to steady himself. They went up to her apartment and she unlocked it. There was a beaded bauble hanging on the end of her ring of keys. She opened the door and shut it behind George, who stood looking around the room: it was smaller than their apartment, only one room with a bathroom and kitchen attached, with not much furnishing. There was a mattress on the floor covered with a bright tie-dyed bedspread and some pillows, a couple of travelling bags, and some cupboards in the walls. There were stacks of books piled up next to the mattress, a lamp with a bright red scarf draped around it, and all around the room were scented candles. George wiggled his eyebrows and smirked, thinking about the suggestive comments John and Pete might have made if they were here, then realized that Leah was not looking at him: she'd gone into the kitchen. 'Just sit anywhere,' called Leah from the kitchen. 'I know it's not much, but I'm planning on getting more stuff.' George he looked around and noticed there wasn't a chair, and wondered if he should just sit on the floor. Leah returned with a glass of water and a handful of tablets, which she held out to him. George started to take all the tablets, but she shook her head and said, 'One is good.' So he took one and gulped it down.

'You can crash there,' she waved her hand at the mattress. 'I have to go get some stuff. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Don't let anyone else in, okay?'

'Sure,' mumbled George. 'Thanks a bazillion.'

Before Leah had left the room, he had crashed out on the mattress and fallen into a deep, dizzying sleep.

* * *

~LEAH~

Leah hoisted her bags onto her shoulders and hurried through the rain: for once, she did not appreciate its untimely appearance. She hauled herself up the stairs, buckling under the weight of her bags, and shouldered her door open, catching it just before the wind threw it to slam back against the door frame - she had forgotten that she'd let George sleep in her apartment. Looking back, she wasn't so sure that was a good idea: she'd just blurted it out, because he really did look sick, and - she knew all about clingy relationships and how irritating they could get. And he seemed like a nice guy, but who was she to know that he wouldn't stuff all money into his pockets and scram? Not that she had much to steal. And, besides. He was George Harrison. _The _George Harrison of _the _Beatles.

Leah had a job now, too. A waitress in a café. Not ideal, but it would do.

_The _George Harrison was still splayed out on her mattress, curled into a ball for warmth. Leah threw a blanket over him, because he looked like he was cold, and then unloaded the things she'd bought: basic groceries and other things she desperately needed - like socks and shampoo and then she'd stumbled upon a rather lovely leather jacket at a thrift store. It was beautiful, black and soft and though it was probably a guy's jacket it was small enough to fit her. She haggled a little with the girl at the counter and finally got it at a price that didn't pinch her pockets. Leah took it out from the bottom of her bag and carefully hung it up. This was to be the beginning of a good friendship, she decided: she loved the jacket. Plus, it would help her fit into the whole Liverpool-Cavern-Club scene.

Leah was in the middle of making her first ever _properly _cooked meal in the apartment when George woke up. She turned around to see him standing in the doorway of the kitchen, looking groggy. 'Hey,' she said, stirring spaghetti sauce on the stove. 'Feel any better?'

'Sort of, thanks,' said George huskily. His eyes landed on the spaghetti. 'Umm ...' he began, looking embarrassed.

'Yeah, you can have some.' Leah thrust two plates, some cutlery and glasses into his hands. 'Just dump that on the table, this'll be done in a sec.'

George twisted his fork through the spaghetti and put it in his mouth. That tasted _good_. Maybe not as good as his mom's, but ... oh, what was he saying? This was as good as his mom's. He stopped, realising that he'd scarfed down three-fourths of his previously heaped plate and Leah was laughing silently. 'This is really good,' he said, a little late.

'Thanks,' she said. 'Secret recipe. Want to know the secret?' she asked. George nodded eagerly and leaned forward. 'I got it out of a jar.'

George blinked, and then let out a loud laugh. For some reason, he found that just hilarious. Leah waited for him to stop slapping the table, amused. George subsided and finished off his plate. There was none left, so he scooped up her plate and his and took it to the kitchen. Leah followed him with the remaining dishes and together they began to work on them in the sink. George glanced towards Leah. She did not seemed fazed by this. Being a girl, George thought she'd be giggling and blushing by now, but Leah wasn't even looking at him: she just took a dish out of his hands to wash it. George took it back and scrubbed it himself, but this did not catch her attention either. She was focused on the job.

Leah finished rinsing her pile of dishes and left them to dry on the dish rack, then dried her hands on a towel and went out of the kitchen, to do what, George did not know. He had bubbles up to his elbows, so he quickly slapped them off. He felt loads better now. His head barely hurt, and though his throat was a little sore, he didn't feel feverish at all.

Leah had folded the blanket he'd slept in and put it neatly at the end of her mattress. She'd put on the radio: it was playing something Buddy Holly. She grinned at him and bumped her hip against his as she went back to the kitchen. She returned as second later with a bar of chocolate. 'Sorry, I don't have anything else,' she giggled, snapping it in half and giving one half to George.

'Mine's smaller,' George inspected his half. Leah squinted at it, then snapped off a bit of his, popped it in her mouth, and handed the shortened piece back to him. 'Hey!' exclaimed George. 'No fair!' He tried to steal Leah's chocolate, but she ducked out of the way and ate it. George resignedly ate his piece. 'You owe me chocolate,' he muttered darkly.

'You owe me spaghetti and seven hours on your bed,' retorted Leah. George raised his eyebrows. 'Don't get your hopes up,' she told him. 'I didn't mean it in a pervy way.' George blushed. 'Pe-erv,' she sang softly.

'I am not!' said George defensively. Then he remembered Meg. She'd be wondering where he was. Leah opened the door. 'See ya around, George,' she said.

'Umm. Do I have to go right now-'

With a spark in her eye, Leah said seriously but not unkindly, 'Get out.'

George got out.

* * *

**Good, bad, middling? I know how this story will end, but I'm not sure how I'm going to go about getting there ... I'm just sort of playing around right now. Please review and tell me what you think! :) Thanks for reading. -Jen. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you for the reviews! :) **

**Also, to reply to Cassiemania's review, since it was an anonymous review: I don't think that my character is particularly Mary-Sue-ish, there is a difference between being likable and Mary-Sue-ish, but since I did create her I guess my judgment would be biased. Tell me what specifically you think I should change about her, because I would hate for Leah to be a Mary Sue. :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night**

**Chapter Four: The Quarrymen**

The rain had let up after two steady days of drizzling. Leah glanced out of the window, which was still stained with track marks of raindrops: it was going to be evening, and her first day at her new job had just ended. Waiting on tables in a café wasn't ideal, but it paid okay, for now. It was pretty tiring though. And people were not so polite to a girl with brown skin: Leah had to remind herself that it was only 1959 and of course people would tend to be a little racist to non-whites. She lay down on the mattress, suddenly feeling down: here she was, in Liverpool in the late fifties, with no idea about what she wanted to do. Stevie had always been so sure about she wanted to do, but then Stevie was most comfortable in a large city in the twenty-first century ... Leah frowned, she didn't know what had come over her. Maybe she was having her period tomorrow. All she knew was that, all of a sudden, her life felt like crap.

Well, her life was a lot better than other people's, Leah decided. She needed something to cheer her up.

She needed a night of _fun_.

* * *

'Get yer butt on stage, Harri,' called John, deliberately keeping the mic near his mouth so that his voice was magnified and everyone could hear him. The audience chuckled, and George quickly downed his beer, taking his guitar on stage. 'Alright then,' said Paul, grinning happily. The stage was smaller than a double bed; there was barely enough place for them all to stand. On top of that, the sound system was terrible and the mics did not have stands, so John and Paul's girlfriends had to sit cross-legged in front of the stage and hold up upside-down brooms to which the mics were tied. Not ideal, George thought, but still, it was a gig, and gigs would get them recognition. The money and fame would come later, right?

They started off playing, and George messed up a few chords in the beginning, but it was alright after that. He did his whole stage-performance thing with John and Paul, all of them leaping about as best they could in the limited space. He could see people in the audience dancing, looking like they were having a good time. George did his little knees-dance thing, winking at a dark-haired girl who wasn't dancing, she was just watching them. He noted that she was dressed pretty weirdly: girls being under the regime of Brigitte Bardot at that time, they all wore those uniforms of clingy jumpsuits, curvy dresses and high heels, which totally worked because George thought that looked pretty hot. He thought fondly of Meg, who always looked so gorgeous, although she wasn't here tonight, which was weird. She _had _dressed up earlier though, in that skintight green dress. Maybe she was going to come here soon.

So this girl wasn't wearing a pretty dress like all the others, but that's what made George look twice: she wore strange pants that weren't loose but clung to her legs, almost like pantyhose, and black boots, and a leather jacket. Since when did birds wear _leather jackets_? Was't that, like, a bloke thing? Underneath that she was wearing a tank top. Wait a second - he _knew _her. That bird from upstairs - Leah. He grinned at her and her lips curved slightly in return. He had to admit that the leather-jacket-black-pants look kind of worked on her, though he preferred the Bardot style - much more revealing.

The performance continued. George felt his shirt getting sticky with sweat - it sure was hot up on stage. He wriggled uncomfortably. When it was over - two hours later - he was more than happy to get off stage, tired but satisfied. Shouldering their instruments, the Quarrymen made their way across the room to the bar counter and began their nightly routine. Well, not all nights - their after-gig routine, more like. Girls surrounded them, and though George flirted with them, he wouldn't go any farther - Meg would be here any minute. He glanced at Stu and Pete enviously: they were sizing up their admirers, trying to see which one they should take out. Not that George didn't love Meg, but with so much choice, it was hard to resist, wasn't it? He exchanged glances with Paul, who was glancing between his girlfriend, Abbot, across the room, and the pretty green-eyes trying to get his attention: he was facing the same situation.

George spotted a green-dressed figure with blonde hair walking outside on the street, broke quickly through the wall of girls and tried to catch up, before realising it wasn't Meg. Oh, well, now that he was outside he could have a smoke. He saw Leah talking to somebody outside. 'Hey,' he said, to get her attention. 'Hey, George. That was really good, I liked _Roll Over Beethoven _best,' she told him. George beamed. 'Thanks. Fancy a ciggie?' Leah accepted a cigarette, which he lit.

'Thanks for letting me sleep over at your apartment yesterday,' said George.

'You're welcome.' Leah took a drag of her cigarette. 'Okay now?'

'Yeah,' said George. 'What about you? I mean, settling into the apartment and all?'

'It's going fine,' replied Leah. 'I managed to get a job. Waitress at a café, but it's better than nothing, right?' She grinned. George nodded - his job as an electrician did not pay much more.

Leah crushed the stub of her cigarette under her heel. 'Let's go back in,' she suggested. George followed her back into the club, where another band was now playing, and considered whether he should ask her for a dance or not. Within seconds, another guy had come up and asked her. She disappeared into the crowd with him without a backwards glance. George decided to have another smoke and headed out of the club, walking down the street, and was just passing a back-alley when he heard a cry. It sounded female - he hastened to see if it was one of those drunkards harassing a woman again, but upon reaching, he saw that it was just a couple making out. He was about to turn back when he recognized the girl. 'Meg,' he gasped. She broke away from the man, lipstick smudged from her lips. 'Problem, mate?' sneered the guy, attempting to slip his hands up Meg's dress. She slapped his hands away. 'George,' she said imploringly, but George just turned on his heel and walked away. A blank, buzzing noise filled his ears. How could she cheat on him? Hadn't he always been so good to her?

Meg caught up to his side by the time he was striding past the dockside. She slipped her hand into his. 'I'm sorry, baby, I made a mistake. Please don't be mad at me, I'll never do it again. I love you George,' she crooned, kissing him. George tried to stay motionless and unresponsive but after a minute gave in. 'Don't ever do that again,' he mumbled. 'Okay?'

'I promise,' said Meg, her fingers reaching for his shirt buttons.

'Let's get home.' George took Meg's hand happily and they started on their way home. 'Crap, I forgot my guitar!' exclaimed George, when they were almost there. 'I gotta get back and get it.'

'Come on, George,' said Meg irritably. 'I'm sure Pete or Stu will bring it back for you, can't we just go home?'

George hesitated, torn. His beautiful, precious guitar. Then he glanced at Meg's impatient face. He didn't want to give her an excuse to be mad at him. 'Alright, let's go home.'

* * *

**Thanks for reading! :) -Jen. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks for all the reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night**

**Chapter Five: This Bird Flies**

The doorbell rang.

George lay flat on his back and gazed at the ceiling. Today, he could lie for as long as liked in bed, because Meg had gone to visit her parents. Only there was _something _nagging him - something not right. His ... his _guitar! _

Oh, wait, the _doorbell rang_?

George jumped out of bed and hurried to the door. 'Shit, shit, shit,' cursed George. His _guitar_. What was _wrong _with him? How could he _leave _it? His one true love? It was probably stolen, or broken by those damn drunks, or thrown out or goddammit how could he be so effing _stupid_? He opened the door. It was Leah. She pointed at her feet. 'Figured you'd want this back,' she said matter-of-factly. George looked down: his guitar case was there.

George stared at the guitar case. It was just lying there. Was it empty? Heart in his mouth, George fell to his knees and threw the case open. Inside lay his guitar, beautiful and whole. His lovely gorgeous _guitar_. George swallowed the lump in his throat, then tenderly shut the case. 'Thank you,' he mumbled, and then threw his arms around her. Then, slightly embarrassed, he withdrew. 'I can't thank you enough. Is there anything I can do to repay you?'

'I'll save it for another day.' Leah grinned. 'I didn't actually get it back. Some guy called Brian told me that it's your stuff and asked me to get it back for you.' George made a mental note in his head to thank the owner of the local record shop, Brian Epstein. 'Oh, wait, I forgot your jacket. It's upstairs.' George followed Leah up the stairs. She let him into her apartment: there were more things in it now than last time. There was a pot of tea sitting on the table. George loved tea; that looked like some exotic tea from someplace interesting. Leah noticed him eyeing it. 'Want a cup of tea?' she asked. George blushed and nodded. She threw his jacket at him and poured him a cup. It tasted amazing; spicy and sweet. 'It's from Assam,' she told him. George wondered where on earth _that _was, but they sure made amazing tea.

The doorbell rang. Leah opened the door. George recognized him as the drummer of the band that had played after the Quarrymen: cute, dark-haired, green-eyed, charming. 'I forgot my shoes,' he said. Leah picked up a pair of shoes from next to the door and handed them to him. 'So, uh, call me maybe?' he asked. She pecked him on the lips and shut the door in his face. 'Won't be seeing _him _in a long time,' she said to George confidentially, with a mischievous grin. _So she's a fast one,_ thought George. _And she likes drummers. _George finished his tea. 'Good tea,' said George.

'See you later,' said Leah.

* * *

Leah fell in love with the shop the moment she saw it.

In post-war Liverpool, most things were grey and dull, except for dance clubs after nine o'clock. Leah hated dull and grey. Since she moved around so much, and couldn't find stability in a home, she made her home in her things. Little belongings. Each thing that belonged to her had a story and origin, and she kept it for a reason. Each one was like a friend; a memory. Which was why this shop appealed to her so much. It was full of old trinkets: bowls of beads and ancient books propped up with painted-tile bookends. Fabrics and old clothes, paintings, scented candles, wooden ships, looking-glasses. There was an elderly woman standing behind the counter. 'How much is this ring for?' asked Leah, handling a beautiful blue-glass ring. She was already wearing a ring on every single finger except the ring finger of her right hand, but hey, who couldn't use another ring?

'Oh, you can have that old thing for free, dearie,' replied the old woman. Leah beamed. She walked around the shop. 'Say, are you from Liverpool?' the old lady squinted at Leah though round tortoiseshell glasses. Leah shook her head. 'Just moved in,' she answered. _Just _was not very true anymore: she'd been here for two months. Then an idea struck her. She didn't particularly like her waitress job and this old lady looked like she could use help: Leah noted a walker by the old lady's desk, and the dust on the shelves (though, personally, Leah thought dust was mysterious and added an air of discovering old treasures - the best secrets were always hidden with dust).

Ten minutes later, Leah walked out of the store with a blue-glass ring, an appointment with the old lady on Monday morning to start work at The Silver Chair, and a ceramic frog with bulbous eyes that she just could _not _resist because of the golden crown on its head - to date, her favourite Disney movie was The Princess and the Frog, mostly because Tiana was _the _only Disney princess who wasn't 'as white as snow'.

* * *

'Mm, you taste so good.'

'It's called cherry lip balm, baby.'

Kissing noises.

George stood outside his bedroom door, aghast. Those voices belonged to Meg and - and _someone_. In _his bedroom_. On _his bed_. She was cheating on him _in his own bed_. George put his hand decisively on the knob, then cringed: did he really want to see what was going on in there? Well ... he also wanted them to get the hell out of his bedroom! He threw the door open. Meg and that - that same guy from last week's gig who was making out with her - jumped apart. 'It's not what you think it is!' screamed Meg. The other guy pulled on his pants and shirt. His underwear was lying on George's pillow. Oh my god, this room would have to be fumigated. George held back the urge to puke. 'Just ... just get out,' he choked.

They got out.

* * *

'Tough luck, man,' said Paul sympathetically. He, Stu and John were helping George clean up his room. It was basically a mess. 'Ya better chuck these out,' he added, throwing all of George's bedsheets into his arms. George nodded glumly and took the sheets out. He wondered where to throw them - the dumpster would be best. Except he couldn't quite see over the top of the pile in his arms. 'Need help?' The voice was Leah's, but he couldn't see her face. 'Um. I'm not sure you want to touch these,' mumbled George.

'Why, what happened?'

George let the sheets tumble out of his arms and flutter across the staircase, and sat down on the top step. Then he poured out his story. He didn't know why he was telling her. Did she even care? At the end of his story, he looked up at Leah for a reaction.

She looked completely bored.

'Sorry to hear that,' she said in a flat voice. 'But you kind of had it coming.'

Well, _that _was not nice, George thought. In fact, that was very mean and harsh of Leah. But she was kind of right. He did have it coming. Some comfort would've been nice though. 'Are you busy right now?' he asked hesitantly. He could use a cup of that awesome tea right now.

'Actually, yeah,' she said. 'Dinner plans.'

'Oh. So you actually called him back?'

Leah frowned. 'Who?'

'The guy who was at your apartment after the gig last week,' George reminded her.

Leah laughed. 'This bird has flown,' she informed him. Then she got up, brushed her hand over the top of his head lightly and disappeared up the stairs.

* * *

**Hey, all my other OCs were sickeningly nice. This one gets to be a bit harsh. Thanks for reading! :D -Jen. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for the reviews! :D **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night**

**Chapter Five: The Weird Girl Gets Weirder**

George was bored.

John was concentrating.

Perfect.

George sneaked up behind his bandmate, licked his finger and stuck straight into John's ear.

'What the fuck, Harrison!' screamed John. He dropped the magazine he'd been looking at and rubbed his ear angrily. 'Sod off.'

'But I'm bored,' whined George, plopping down on the sofa next to John. 'Whatcha looking at?' He peered over into John's magazine. John was looking at a picture of a pouting Brigitte Bardot. 'Ooh, lemme see too,' said George excitedly. 'She's hot.'

'As hot as that gal upstairs?' said John slyly.

It took George a second to realise that John was talking about Leah. He laughed. 'Nah, not even close. No gal compares to that one,' he pointed at Brigitte. 'Though they sure as hell try.'

'I dunno, Georgie boy, you have been talking to her a lot,' said John, putting his hand on his chin as if in deep thought. 'She has a nice ass.'

'John!' exclaimed George, swatting him.

'What, I'm right, aren't I? Why, you jealous?' John giggled gleefully. '_George loves Leah, George loves Leah_! Na na na na na na!' he sang, as George's face turned red.

'Shut up, ya little fucker! I do not! She's way too weird!'

'Ooh, bad language? Pretty intense, Georgie boy. Georgie's a bad boy, Georgie's got a potty mouth!' John whooped happily, diving out of the way of George's angry attempt to hit him. 'What's so weird about her? She got brown skin? Being racist, huh, George?'

'No,' snapped George. 'She's just ... strange. She's got this whole been-to-a-billion-places thing and she's only, like, seventeen! And she _dresses _so weird. Since when do girls wear leather jackets? Seriously? And she's a total Maggie Mae! She's, like, the queen of one night stands.'

'That's how I like 'em, Georgie boy,' said John, grinning. 'Hate the clingy ones, they seem to think you owe them a ring if you lay them! In fact,' he sat up suddenly, 'I think I'll see if I can get anything outta her!' He jumped up and made his way to the door.

'Hey!' yelled George. 'You can't do that! There's no way she'll sleep with _you_.' The last part was probably a lie, George thought, the chicks lined up to sleep with John. But still! John didn't even _know _Leah. And he had Cynthia - who was out of town to visit her parents. Well.

'Why, Georgie doesn't want me to sleep with Leah? Georgie gettin' _jealous_?' John grinned. 'Well, why don't _you _go try then?'

'Huh? Try what?' asked George stupidly.

'Meg's gone now, isn't she? You're free! Go on, then.' John pushed George towards the door. 'Go get her!'

Under the pressure of his older bandmate, George hesitated. John did always treat him as inferior, and maybe this way he'd get some respect. So he mustered up his dignity and strode bravely towards the door, while John whooped a cry of encouragement at his back. Unfortunately, John's yells of 'Go get her, Georgie boy! You got 'er in the palm of yer hand!' filtered through the door just as Leah was coming down the stairs. George reddened as she raised one eyebrow at him. Damn that eyebrow! 'Um, that's just. John, ya know, likes ta yell random shit. Uh, just ignore him.'

Leah shrugged and continued down the stairs. Aware that his quarry was disappearing fast, George hurried after her.

'Hey, Leah! Want to hang out, or something? We could have more of that tea, maybe? If you want?'

The eyebrow again. Gawd. 'Sure, there's some left in the pot upstairs,' she tossed him a key, which he caught, startled. 'Just leave the keys on the table when you're done. See ya.' And with that she was gone. 'Fail, Harrison,' George muttered to himself. Guess she didn't hear the hanging out part, then, only the tea part. Oh, well. George felt a wee bit relieved and a bit hurt too. He went on up to her apartment and got some of the tea. Mm, that was good stuff. Then he looked around her apartment. There was a book lying on her mattress. He picked it up; its cover was a collage of faces George didn't recognize; he flipped through it. It was in the strangest language ever. It was English, but used strange words he didn't know: celphone, headphones, computer. And it mentioned a phrase George just couldn't understand: _the music of the eighties_, it said. Eighties? As in, 1980? The year that was twenty years away? Leah was definitely one strange chick.

He threw the book back down and wandered over to the chest of drawers, which was built into the wall with the cupboard and piled with things. He picked up a t-shirt from the top of the pile: it was black, with the face of a black man on it. His hair was strange: bundled into thick locks that hung around his charming face, which was framed with the smoke that drifted from a large spliff. The bottom of the t-shirt was emblazoned with: _Bob Marley_. Who was that now? George had heard of plenty black musicians, but this guy wasn't one of them.

He continued to poke around her things: there was a mug with pictures all around it. One side had a rather interesting picture of a prism with a ray of light white going through it and splitting into rainbows on the other side. The other side had a picture of four guys who were obviously a band. Pink Floyd, they were, if the words at the bottom of the mug were the band name. George had never heard of them, either.

George found something even more baffling than the previous three: a long white string that seemed to be made of rubber, or plastic. One end was silver-tipped, some kind of metal. The other forked into two thinner white strings, which ended in strange grey-tipped plug-like protrusions. George could not figure out what they could possibly be, though, being an electrician, he recognized the silver-tipped end as being some kind of a plug which would go into an electrical socket; he had never seen one like it.

Utterly bewildered, George let himself out of the apartment.

When he returned home, John was still gazing at his Brigitte Bardot picture. 'So, ya got her?' John screeched happily. 'Whoa, Georgie boy, that was fast!'

'Erm ... yeah,' George smiled weakly. He shut himself into his room and picked up his guitar; its woody surface under his fingers soothed him and helped him stop thinking about the things he had found in Leah's apartment.

* * *

**lol George'signorance. I think I'll let George and Leah have a one-night stand before the actual relationship. Thoughts? Might make things interesting by awakening George's feelings for her, which she doesn't return? o_O Thanks for reading! :D -Jen. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks for the reviews! :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night**

**Chapter Seven: It Feels So Right Now**

****~GEORGE~

George was bone tired. Six hours of steady practice with the band; they had a bunch of new songs and covers lined up. Nowadays he was pretty busy with all the Quarrymen gigs - four gigs in six days! Now _that _was what they wanted. Paul had even managed to bag them a show at the _Cavern Club. _The Cavern Club was the kind of place the _big _bands played at. It had a nice big stage, a proper sound system, and mic stands. That gig was tonight, and George couldn't wait for it.

George hadn't seen Leah for an entire week and she hadn't come to any more of their gigs, either. This wouldn't have come to his notice, if he hadn't been so utterly bewildered by what he had found in her apartment a week ago. He couldn't ask her without admitting he'd poked through her things, though. Maybe he could bring it up in a way she wouldn't notice ... he could ask her to come to the gig tonight, and maybe she'd mention something herself?

George left the apartment and went on up to Leah's apartment. He hesitated outside her door; why did he care, anyway? What if _all _girls had weird things like that stashed in their rooms? Books with words he didn't understand; things printed with pictures of people he'd never heard of? But Leah was most definitely unlike all other girls. George raised his hand decisively, but before he could knock, Leah's voice came from behind him. 'George? What are you doing?'

George whirled around. She was standing on the top of the steps behind him. 'Hey, I was just going to ask you if you wanted to come to our gig tonight? It's at the Cavern Club,' said George, grinning. Leah just looked at him blankly. 'Um. I don't know. I'll see.'

That was definitely strange, George had been expecting a more excited response from Leah; she was normally pretty interested in their music.

'Thanks for the tea last week, by the way. I didn't get to tell you.'

'Yeah, sure,' Leah deadpanned. George looked closer. Her eyes were red.

'Are you alright?' he asked hesitantly.

'Yeah, fine.' She walked past him, unlocked the door to her apartment. He'd never seen her like this; George had always thought of Leah as the kind of person who was too strong to cry. Or maybe it was just that she'd never shown any kind of sadness. Or any reason to be sad. George felt like he had to ask her what was wrong; hadn't she done the same, when he was upset about Meg?

'Leah, wait,' George said. She stopped but didn't turn around. 'Do you want to talk about it?'

Leah turned around. And just like that, she looked completely normal. She didn't look like she had been crying at all. It was as though she'd put in a mask in the few moments her back had been turned on him. She just gave him a quizzical look, the kind of reaction George would have expected from her normally, and laughed. 'I told you, I'm fine,' she said. 'Where did you say the gig tonight was?'

'Um, the Cavern Club,' said George, a little unnerved, but relieved nonetheless that he didn't have a crying girl on his hands. 'Wow, big break for the band, huh?' she said. George nodded, grinning. 'It is,' he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

'What time does it start?' asked Leah.

'Um. Sevenish, eightish?'

'Okay. I'll be there.' Leah flashed him a smile and closed the door.

* * *

~LEAH~

Leah leaned against the door and let the smile slide off her face, breathing heavily. She was so relieved that George hadn't glimpsed the inside of her apartment.

It looked like an explosion had taken place in the room.

Her things were strewn across the floor, articles of clothing, books, jewellery - and photographs. They layered the floor, hundreds of them, hundreds of paper memories slipped under the mattress and fluttered to corners of the room, even into the kitchen. As though a storm had ripped them from the neat envelopes in which Leah kept them normally.

She didn't know what had come over her; late last night, she'd been reading a book and listening to music, and quite suddenly she was overcome by a wave of nostalgia. So she sat with those envelopes, looking at photos, replacing each in its neat stack, and then she looked at all her things in which she had made a home over all those years, souvenirs from different places, memories of people and times. It was like a peaceful remembering, till she lost it. Then, like an unexpected summer storm, she left the apartment and its explosion of memories scattered across the floor and went away as far as she could, till it died.

And now she'd have to clean it all up. 'Stupid Leah,' muttered Leah, gathering a pile of photographs together and dumping them on her mattress. 'I didn't know you'd be a emo chick when I made you.'

Two full hours later, the apartmentsomewhat cleaner ... kind of ... But that didn't matter. It was time to get to the Quarrymen's gig.

Leah liked to pretend that she wasn't fazed by the fact that she lived above the early Beatles. She'd loved the Beatles for_ever_. But she knew better than to get too close to any of them. What with the fame, stardom, media and hordes of fangirls that would sweep them away in less than two years, not to mention the various girlfriends and wives they'd move through - _and _the acids and alcohol and tension in the studio - she wasn't planning to stay here that long, anyway. Liverpool was not terribly interesting, other than the young Beatles part.

Still, she couldn't lie about the fact that it _was _pretty cool to know that while you were out, George Harrison was having tea in your apartment.

* * *

~GEORGE~

George felt electric.

This crowd was far bigger than any they'd played in before. He couldn't see their faces much, but he could see the black shapes of hundreds of bodies moving and dancing to _their _music. He glanced at his bandmates; John was grinning even as he sang into the mic, Paul was beaming and bobbing his head; even Stu wasn't standing quite as stiffly as he normally did. George dived into a solo, riding his guitar up against his torso and doing a little dance with his feet. The crowd roared their appreciation.

In that moment, he felt so good.

To top it all, after the show, they were congratulated by the owner of their local record shop, Brian Epstein, who told them to meet him at the fish and chips place a block down so that he could introduce them to someone important. Curious, they all gathered their instruments and traipsed down to the restaurant, where Brian, a man with a jovial smile who managed theatre shows sometimes, was sitting in a booth with an older well-dressed man with paling hair. He introduced him as George Martin - something that the boys found extremely funny, since he shared a name with George. Once they had subsided, George Martin - the Other George, George decided - who seemed rather unsure of how to handle these laughing, loudmouthed Teddy boys in their leather jackets and tight pants - told them that he was willing to put them in a studio and offer them a recording deal, and was wondering if they were interested.

A short silence followed this statement.

'Bloody 'ell, of course we're interested!' exclaimed John. All of them were beaming at each other like little boys, high-fiving and whooping: this was it! The Other George pursed his lips but couldn't stop them from turning upwards at their ecstatic response. 'Provided,' he said loudly, and they all fell silent at once, 'you are willing to behave a little more ... _professionally_.'

The boys blinked at him. 'What do you mean?' grunted Stu roughly.

'For starters, better stage outfits,' said George Martin. 'None of those leather jackets. And you'll have to get rid of those hairstyles.'

'My duck's arse!' exclaimed Pete, putting his hands to his dark hair. 'I ain't getting rid of it!'

'Secondly,' said George Martin, fixing his eyes on Pete, 'no cussing on stage. It's not professional.'

Despite the damper the new rules put on them, the Quarrymen were elated. This was it. This was the big break they'd been waiting for. 'When do we start recording?' asked John eagerly.

'We're going to Hamburg in a month, but we'll be back in three weeks,' added Paul.

'Good. We'll start recording on Monday. Got a song prepared?'

They couldn't answer. They just nodded, open mouthed, and George Martin nodded goodnight to them and left them to their celebrations.

Half an hour later, George was standing alone next to the bar, back at the Cavern Club. Rory Storm and the Hurricanes were performing. Pete and John had both disappeared with girls, Stu was dancing with one, and Paul was talking to Brian Epstein somewhere in the crowd. George was just wondering whether that blonde girl in the black dress would agree to dance with him, when he spotted Leah dancing with another guy. He wanted to see the smile on her face when he told her the band had just been signed. He tapped her shoulder and said, 'Dance with me?' She grinned and nodded. 'Guess what!' said George as the song began.

'What?' asked Leah.

'Guess what,' said George, grinning. 'We juts got signed!'

'Oh my god!' shrieked Leah, by far the most enthusiastic response he'd gotten from her, and threw her arms around him. They continued dancing. 'That's so great!' she told him sincerely, beaming. 'Aren't you going to celebrate?'

'I think,' said George, 'that I would like to celebrate with some food.'

* * *

George just couldn't stop shoveling food into his mouth, he was _starving_. Three-fourths of the way through his plate, when he was debating whether to eat the fries _before _his second burger or after, he realized that Leah was trying hard not to laugh. She pressed one hand to her mouth, and the burst out laughing.

'What?' asked George, confused, but since his mouth was full of food, it just sounded like, 'Moff?'

Leah didn't answer, just continued laughing hysterically like she couldn't stop, and George just sat there, puzzled, and then he chuckled, shaking his head. 'Sorry,' gasped Leah, when she had subsided enough to speak. George grinned. 'S'okay,' he told her, stuffing fries into his mouth. He wondered how she was laughing so much right now; she'd looked pretty upset a few hours ago. Oh, well. He'd thought maybe she was PMSing, because Meg sure used to be cranky when she PMSed. Except _she _never made an effort to pretend not to be.

After George had finished eating, they walked back home. It was kind of chilly, so George offered Leah his jacket. He thought she'd be pleased, but she just gave him a weird look and told him thank you, she would have worn her own if she was feeling cold. Which was strange again. Meg was always so happy when he gave her his jacket. Oh, well. Hadn't he decided a long time ago that this chick was weird?

And right now, weird seemed pretty alright to him.

* * *

~LEAH~

Since _the _George Harrison was trying to be all gentlemanly and sweet, Leah let him walk her up to her apartment. And then because she didn't feel like saying goodbye, she invited him in for a cup of tea.

Extremely relieved that she'd taken the care to clean up her apartment before leaving, she followed him into the kitchen: he already knew where everything was, and shot her a grin when she raised an eyebrow. When the tea was made, she picked up her cup and cocked her head towards the door, indicating that he follow her out of the door and up the stairs, two flights up, to the terrace. Its normal offering was of a bleak view of Liverpool, suburban houses and some tall buildings interspersed with straight grey roads and a flat grey sky, but at night the velvet darkness was scattered with a shower of lights, and for once the cloudless sky offered them some stars. The moon was barely visible; just a glimpse of a sliver of its pale face through a halo of silver-washed clouds, like a light through a fish net. Leah sat on the edge of the roof, dangling her feet over it and cradling her cup of tea in one hand.

'You'll fall!' exclaimed George when he saw her. 'Get back from there.'

Leah just giggled. 'I won't,' she promised, and patted the space beside her. Cautiously, George scooted across the roof and then folded his lanky legs, sitting cross-legged.

A snatch of a radio song drifted through one of the open windows from the building across. George started to sing along with it - he had a nice voice, Leah thought - but then the sound was cut off and he chuckled and shook his head ruefully, running a hand through his hair. 'Sing,' he told Leah. She frowned, fingering the edge of the sleeve of her leather jacket; she didn't sing for people often, only for herself. 'Please,' added George softly, and she giggled, unable to say no to that. 'What do you want me to sing?' she asked finally, setting her cup next to her.

George tilted his head. 'A song that's ... _you_, if you know what I mean.'

Leah's eyes lit up, she knew exactly what that mean. 'Like a soul song?' she asked. George turned over this new phrase in his head, 'Yeah.' So she sang, '_Said I remember, when we used to sit, in the government yard in Trench Town ... oba-observing the hypocrites, as they mingle with the good people we meet. Good friends we have, oh good friends we've lost, along the way. In this bright future, you can't forget your past, so dry your tears I say ... and, no woman no cry ... No woman no cry._'

Leah couldn't believe she'd been so incredibly _stupid_; Bob Marley wasn't known yet, and here she was singing his song to George. She hadn't really thought about it. No Woman, No Cry was one of her favourite songs and it had felt so right in the moment. She glanced at George; his dark eyes were fixed on her so intently that she felt uncomfortable, almost. 'That was beautiful,' he said softly. Leah felt her face break into a little smile. 'Sing it again,' he said. Leah shook her head. Best not to sing the same song twice; maybe he would forget the tune by the time Bob Marley actually wrote the song. 'Please,' begged George, 'You have the sweetest voice ever.'

'I never sing the same song twice,' _to you_, said Leah, somewhat truthfully. George sighed, looking down. Leah hesitated, then started humming the tune of _Something_. She didn't say the words; just hummed the tune, and George looked up at her, a strange look on his face. 'What's that?' asked George, when she paused. 'What are the words?'

Leah really had to stop following her heart. Her brain was really so much smarter. She shouldn't just do things just because it _felt _right ... 'I ... I can't tell you,' Leah mumbled.

To make George forget the tune, she leaned in and kissed him.

* * *

~GEORGE~

George's senses went wild.

Leah's lips gently pressed against his, and before he knew it he was kissing her back, running his fingers through her hair, angling her face with his hands so that their mouths fit better. When she didn't stop him, braver, George broke apart and stood, pulling her up with him. Not letting his eyes leave hers, a long look passed between them and then he led her back down, to her apartment, onto her mattress.

The tea lay forgotten on the rooftop and filled up to the spilling with the pouring rain.

* * *

**This is not the interesting bit. Wait for the next chapter to see what George finds out :D Thanks for reading! -Jen. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks for the reviews :D **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night**

**Chapter Eight: She's Well Acquainted with the Touch of the Velvet Hand **

****~LEAH~

Leah was an insomniac. It always took her hours to fall asleep, and tonight was no better.

So she still lay awake while George's breathing slowed, deep and even; he'd fallen asleep on his stomach, leaving his back exposed till the sheet covered his body from the waist downwards, shoulders bunched up and one arm slung around Leah. In the darkness that was slightly mitigated by a handful of candles lit around the apartment, his skin looked unnaturally flawless. With his dark hair mussed and falling into his closed eyes, his face composed in sleep, breathing softly, Leah thought he was sort of beautiful; but his arm around her didn't feel right, so she lifted it and got out. Putting on some clothes, she tiptoed into the kitchen, silently, got a drink of water and then sat at the table with a book, _Memoirs of a Geisha_, something she'd picked up from the antique store. She couldn't read it though; her mind was all full of the fact that _she just slept with George Harrison _- and, even though it felt absolutely amazing - she didn't feel anything for him. Alright, maybe she'd had a little crush on him - he was pretty good-looking, and he was a future _Beatle_, if that wasn't enough, she didn't know what was. But she certainly wasn't going to start a relationship with him - he was going to be a _Beatle_. He wouldn't have time for her. And moreover, would she have time for him? Leah did not plan on staying in Liverpool for too long; it was enjoyable, but a bit of a drag. She could do better somewhere else. Maybe she was ready for that trip to the sixties she'd always wanted.

But it wasn't so easy to just sleep with George Harrison and forget about it.

Leah could do that with other boys. That was just fine; so long as they weren't deluding themselves that she wanted something real from them. But George was a friend ... and while a future Beatle wouldn't make the best boyfriend, what with the attention and press and buttloads of girls, Leah valued friendship. More than love. George probably didn't want anymore out of her either; he was, after all, just getting over his ex-girlfriend, Maggie or whatever. For a fifties girl, Leah _knew _she didn't fit in. She was a weirdo in this time. She was a weirdo in all times, but at least the people from other times were okay with that, mostly. After a little bit she put the book away and lay down on the mattress again, and fell asleep.

* * *

~GEORGE~

George woke up with his face pressed into a cool vanilla-scented pillow. He felt incredibly comfortable in this position - since when was his bed so comfy? And then he remembered that he was not in his bed. He rolled over and saw Leah asleep next to him. Her face was covered with her hair, but she was wearing clothes - which made George suddenly aware of his own nakedness. His boxers were lying right next the mattress, so he pulled them on and then decided not to bother with the rest.

John would be proud.

George lay on his back and considered his position. Alright, Leah was slightly weird, but he liked it. She was interesting, she liked to have fun and George liked hanging out with her. And she was pretty. He turned over to look at her, but he couldn't see her face. He noticed a tattoo on her shoulder: a moon. George traced his hand over it. It was beautiful. He grinned; he was too charged to fall asleep, so he sat up and went over to the kitchen to get a cup of that leftover tea. He took it over to the table and sat down.

Then he caught sight of an envelope on the table. It was right in front of him. It was staring him in the eye. George craned his neck forward slightly: under the white paper of the envelope, he could make out some bright colours. A photograph! George glanced towards Leah. She was asleep. He couldn't help it any more; setting the tea cup down on the table, George slid out the photographs and looked at them.

The first was of girl of eleven or twelve, quite young - innocent, with the remnants of that childhood chubbiness still persisting - judging by her caramel skin and dark hair, she was probably Leah's sister, or something. Or maybe a younger photo of Leah herself. Same wide brown eyes, and all that. But vulnerable. Not the strong, independent figure Leah cut. On the back of the photograph was scribbled a date and a name: _Zanora Elva Hendrixon_. George wondered who she was. Exotic name, he thought.

The next photograph was of exactly the same girl, but in this photo, she was older. And though she, too, was young, she looked confidently at the camera, head held straight up; determined, bold. On the back of this photograph was scribbled the name _Fayne Pattie Wilde_. George frowned, holding up the two photographs together. He could have sworn they were the same girl photographed at different ages. Their stances might have been different, but in every other way, their features were exact. Puzzled, George looked at the next one.

This one was a photograph of the same girl, older still. In this one she must be about, fifteen, sixteen? Not much older than Fayne Pattie Wilde. But her brown eyes sparkled, and she smiled, wide and beautiful. A happy smile. George only just realized that the other two girls had not been smiling. Her name was Aurora.

The next photograph showed a girl who was barely older than Aurora, but so radically different that George was positive they were not the same person. This girl's hair hung in front of her face, hiding it, as though they were curtains that blocked the world out. Her face was dark, shadowed with sadness and an air of someone who didn't care much for living. The photograph said that her name was Korra.

Now he was down to the last two pictures in the envelope. Identical to all the other girls in the photographs, but the oldest, most confident, happy - defined. Stevie, her name was, had bright beads braided into her hair, earrings dangling on from her ears, and looked like she'd be fun to hang out with - the kind of person who made the most of every day.

And the last picture was of Leah.

George laid out all the pictures on the table, in the right order. Were they all sisters? But the dates said otherwise; if Leah was about seventeen, eighteen, maybe nineteen, now, then she had to be eleven around the same time the photograph of Zanora Elva Hendrixon was taken. And if George had to picture Leah was an eleven-year-old, that would exactly what she looked like.

But these pictures _couldn't _all be of Leah. They were so ... _different_. One person couldn't change so many times. One person couldn't be so many different people ... did that make sense? George sucked in a breath and then quickly put the pictures back in the envelope and slapped it onto the table. He drained his teacup, rinsed it in the kitchen sink and dunked it on the wash board.

* * *

**Should I make George and Leah have a proper relationship now? I wasn't planning to, but I'll take a vote, so tell me what you think in a review :) Thanks for reading! -Jen. **


	10. Chapter 10

**HI. Regular updates now, promise. Pinky promise, and I NEVER EVER break a pinky promise. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night**

**Chapter Nine: Hello Goodbye**

~GEORGE~

'So, where were you last night, Macca?' asked John slyly. Stu, his girlfriend Abby and John's girlfriend Cynthia all snickered, but George hid his face behind his beer mug, hoping they wouldn't get to asking where _he'd _been last night. He wanted it to be a secret. He wasn't ashamed - no, it would definitely earn John and Paul's respect. Leah was not an easy bird to get. George got butterflies thinking about it: did this mean that they were together? Did she like him? And _what _was that stuff he'd seen at her house - those pictures! Maybe he could ask her now.

'Well, George?'

George's head snapped up. Everyone in the booth of the diner was staring at him. He blinked. 'Uh, sorry, what?'

'Well, haven't ya got something ter say ter Macca here?' John demanded. Paul's face was scarlet; he looked uncomfortable.

'Um. No?' George ventured.

'Macca just slept with yer girl!' Stu exploded. He was grinning and shaking his head. Abigail and Cynthia looked serious and disapproving, and slightly disgusted. John looked as though he found the whole situation hilarious.

'My girl?' asked George. 'Le -'

'Meg!' exclaimed John, before George had been heard.

George was surprised to find that he did not particularly mind. 'Meg's not my girl anymore,' he said mildly. 'We broke up, remember?'

'So, uh, we're alright then, Georgie boy?' asked Paul hopefully. George nodded nonchalantly. 'Just a word of advice though, get out while you can.'

The table exploded with laughter. Abigail and Cynthia in particular laughed loudly: they did not like Meg. 'But I thought you were upset about the break-up,' Abby managed after their laughter had subsided.

'Aye, I was, but come to think, she was pretty much the worst I could do,' said George thoughtfully.

'True, true. You could do better, Georgie boy,' said Stu, nodding. 'Like ... that girl.' He cocked his head towards a pretty brunette sitting in the next booth. George glanced at her. She was alright. He took another swallow of beer. 'Go on, Harri,' said Paul. 'Ask her to come to the gig tonight.'

George took another swallow of beer as though considering the matter, but really he was trying to figure out how to get out of it. 'Go on,' prompted Stu. 'We saw her here a coupla days ago and you thought she was hot then too.'

'I did?' George frowned.

'Yeah, ya did.'

The whole table was looking at him expectantly. He glanced around and to his surprise, Leah walked by the shop. His heart started hammering. 'I, uh, need a smoke,' he said hastily and slid out of the booth. John stuck his leg out and tripped George flat on his face. His cheeks burning, George scrambled up. Leah was gone. He hoped she hadn't seen.

'Leaving so soon?' said John innocently.

'But it wasn't soon enough for us to discover your lil' secret,' trilled Paul gleefully. 'Georgie boy's in love!'

* * *

The crowd was thin tonight.

Tuesday nights, George was beginning to realise, were not the best for gigs. He sighed heavily - tonight's soundsystem was especially crappy. He barely had one square foot of space in which to move. How was he supposed to perform here? But, he realised, being a musician would mean taking it all as it came. Till the fame hit, of course. That would come later.

Their audience comprised of eight men from the shipyard who'd drunk themselves silly by eight o'clock. There was also a stripper from the club across the road who looked about 40. George wondered if Leah was going to turn up, but that thought was squashed quickly when he saw a familiar face beaming at him from the meagre crowd. Meg. George may not have had any feelings left for her, but he was still pissed that she'd cheated on him - in his _own bedroom_ too. He averted his eyes and concentrated on his guitar. Paul looked worried at the lack of energy on stage; John just looked resigned.

'Let's take a break, shall we?' suggested Paul. The band trooped off stage. George headed straight to the bar; he needed a heavy drink. He sat on the bar stool, downing his beer and pointedly _not _looking towards Meg and Paul sucking face next to him. 'Harrison,' said a stern voice. George found himself face-to-face with Pete. 'That beer,' he said, pointing to George's mug, 'is like drinking fucking apple juice. To get back over there,' he threw one thumb in the direction of the stage, 'and get this show _going_, you need _this_.' He thrust a drink into George's hands. George wasn't sure what exactly it was, but it sure got his blood pumping. All of them considerably more lighthearted with the alcohol buzzing in them as they went back onstage.

George was stumbling up the stairs to his apartment and suddenly he found himself in a tangled heap somewhere in the middle with his guitar on top of him. Paul and John just wriggled on the floor of the landing laughing at him. Stu, coming up the stairs, tripped on George and rolled down several flights. 'Help,' said George, but none of his tipsy bandmates could do more than fall about giggling.

'Need help?'

George could only see the toes of his saviour - with some pretty toe-rings on them and an anklet - but he could recognize the voice. 'Yes,' he said, but with his face in the carpet of the hallway it sounded like 'Muf.' Leah dragged him up by the shoulders and carefully leaned him against the wall. Stu, Pete, John and Paul - they were all sleeping in, a tradition they liked to follow after most gigs - traipsed into the apartment, but George hung back.

~LEAH~

George was standing outside the door. Leah looked into the apartment just to make sure there was no blockage in the doorway stopping him from going inside. She willed his tipsy feet to carry him in - Leah was _not _getting involved with _this _future rock star. Hadn't she read the story of his marriage with Pattie Boyd? How the fame had led him to religion, which led them apart? So why was George's cute playful-drunk smile making her feel like smiling too?

George tried to take a step forward and tripped tipsily - Leah quickly held him up for support. George grinned at her and wrapped his arms around her waist. 'Hello,' he said playfully. Leah groaned under his weight. 'Goodbye,' she mumbled, pushing him off her. George sat down on his butt, looking slightly hurt. His hurt expression faded to thoughtfulness as he surveyed Leah and smiled a little. Leah sighed, tapping one bare foot, a little impatient - she couldn't leave drunk George sitting out here. He'd never make it into the apartment. 'Come on,' she huffed, pulling him up. She half-carried, half-dragged George into the apartment and stopped in the middle, not sure which room was his. George's weight was almost toppling her over. 'Where's your room?' she asked, but George was too busy making shapes out of her hair.

So Leah led him to the sofa and laid him down on it. 'Where are you going?' asked George as she went into one of the bedrooms, where Paul and John were passed out on the same bed. She picked up one blanket and then put it around George. 'Leah,' hummed George happily. 'I like you.'

Leah giggled. His eyes were already shutting. She sighed - he looked so cute, she thought, hair all mussed, curled up under the blanket - she just wanted to crawl in with him and cuddle. But being involved with a Beatle?

'Night, George,' she said, kissing his forehead. Then she shut the door and went up to her own apartment.

* * *

**Ohmygod Leah's such a pissoff. Like, who wouldn't cuddle with George? Even a drunk one? I would date a Beatle ANYDAY. Despite all the other problems. I shall knock some sense into Leah in the next few chapters. Or try at least, she is quite a stubborn duckie. Thanks for reading! :) -Jen. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night**

**Chapter Ten: He Just Do What He Please**

****~GEORGE~

George was annoyed.

Leah just _wouldn't _let him get to her. He'd tried everything. He left flowers at her doorstep, begged her to go out with him every time she passed the apartment. But she always just smiled and shook her head. Before, she used to invite him over for tea, come for their gigs, talk to him. But suddenly, after that night, she never stayed too long. A quick conversation in the corridor, sometimes just a wave or a smile. George didn't know why. All he knew was that she was like no girl he'd ever met before.

* * *

~LEAH~

Leah wanted so badly to say yes to George, to satisfy that pleading look in his eyes. But after she'd hummed the tune of _Something _- how much more could she possibly do to mess things up? This boy had a huge future, and she wasn't going to ruin it. Not for him, not for the rest of the world. Because she wouldn't, _couldn't_, not say anything for long.

Elva had had high hopes for Leah Andrea Blaise.

She sighed. There was always a reason for it to end.

* * *

~GEORGE~

George was sick of waiting.

He _knew _that Leah cared about him. So why was she trying to pretend like nothing mattered? She could try and pretend all she liked, but the time had come for drastic action.

George marched up the steps to Leah's apartment and rang the bell. As soon as his finger left the button, he stepped aside so that he wouldn't be visible from the peephole in the door. The door opened a moment later, and Leah looked out, saw no one standing there, turned her head sideways and saw George. 'George?' she said, her eyes quizzical, and then, not unkindly, 'What do you want?'

'This,' answered George, and with that he pressed her up against the wall and kissed her.

Startled, Leah stiffened, but George had been expecting this: he kissed her gently, till she relaxed and let him go in deeper. Then he pulled back and was satisfied to see her eyes wide. This was the first time he'd managed to surprise her, George thought.

* * *

~LEAH~

Leah looked sideways and saw George standing there. 'George?' she said, puzzled. 'What do you want?'

Leah thought that might have sounded rude, but George had a strange, intense look in his dark eyes. He said, 'This,' and then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed her. Leah couldn't remember exactly how it happened; she could feel his hands, one at her waist and one holding her face, and his lips, ever so gentle, as he kissed her. She relaxed and let him in, keeping her hands behind her back on the knob of the door, and kissed him back, because she wanted it, too.

George pulled back and smirked lightly at her startled expression. 'There!' he said, and Leah thought she heard triumph in his voice, 'So you _are _just pretending!'

'Pretending what?' asked Leah, bewildered.

'Pretending that you don't like me,' stated George.

Leah rolled her eyes. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' she muttered, turning away to go back into her apartment, but George caught her arms and spun her around into his, 'You know what I'm talking about.' Leah shook her head, refusing to meet his gaze, a smile tugging at her lips, 'No I don't,' 'Yes you do,' said George, turning her face, but she still wouldn't meet his eyes, 'Yes you do, yes, you do.' She shook her head again and again, giggling, but George's lips captured hers. 'Yes, you do.'

'Are you sure you want to do this?' asked George. Leah closed her eyes, and for a second she was far away. A moment spread its wings and passed. She opened her eyes. 'Yes, I do.'

* * *

**Thanks for reading! :) -Jen. **


	12. Chapter 12

**Hello readers! Exam mania. Yuch. I'm back though :D Thanks for the reviews! :) **

**Here is a quick recap, since I haven't updated in a while: George and Leah slept together, Leah thought it was just a one night stand but George fell in love with her, so now here they are again. c: **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**BLACKBIRD **

**Chapter Eleven: Stay**

Leah could not believe what she'd just done.

This, this was not good! For a second time? She couldn't stay any longer. Leah's main motto in life was to do whatever she wanted to, and taking every opportunity she could, but sometimes there were things more important than what she wanted. Like _not _ruining the life of a super famous rock star and deprive the world of his beautiful ballads. She rolled away from his arm quickly and dragged on her clothes. And even in the midst of her horror at what she'd done, she couldn't help but remember how incredible it was. George lay fast asleep to one side of her mattress; the sheet covered his body only from the waist down. His long hair fell across his forehead; in the low light, Leah saw that somehow the ring from the middle finger of her right hand had slipped onto the pinkie finger of his left one. She rubbed her middle finger; it felt bare. She couldn't remember the last time she'd taken it off. She turned away from George quickly. Ran to the window and threw it open. Cool, rain-fresh air whooshed onto her face, fleeting comfort; she gripped the icy-cold window-sill. The street that lay before her was dark.

Flight; that was all that was on her mind. Flight, because that's what Zanora Elva Hendrixon did. What Stevie had done, what Korra had done, what Aurora had done - no, Aurora had not done that. Aurora had stayed. And what did that get her? Aurora, caught up in the sunlit tangles of romance, didn't see it coming, didn't see that her heart would be broken, didn't see all those whispered promises of forever dissolving on his lips. But he was so different, Leah thought, from George. For years she'd treated boys only as playthings. Temporary entertainment, sometimes good friends. Leah _so _didn't want to be that chick-lit girl who sang that _this _one, _this _one was different, _this _one was special.

But this one was certainly different.

_Flight_, whispered every instinct in Leah's body. Her skin tingled with the word.

'Hey,' George's deep, accented voice, slightly sleepy, warm as his lips brushed against her ear, his arms wrapped around her torso, pulling her against his bare chest. Now her skin tingled with a whole different sensation, one that she liked much better. 'Come back.' He pulled her back to the mattress; she let him, the uneasiness dissolving with every backward step. He laid her down and covered them both with the blanket. Then he played with her hair, letting it fall on his face and on his shoulders, mouth pulled up in that cute half-smile. His eyes shut. Leah held her breath. She was so comfortable here.

_Flight_, whispered the wind from the window. It was still open.

She started to ease herself, very slowly, out of the blanket to shut the window. George's eyes opened and stopped her. 'Stay,' he said. She lay down again, and he wrapped his arms around her. 'Just stay.'

Leah stayed.

* * *

**Yay, Leah's hopefully not going to be this annoying anymore. Wtf would you consider ditching George Harrison, girl? Anyway thanks for reading! :D -Jen. **


	13. Chapter 13

**I know it's been a while, I hope you guys are doing good. In my defence, this was a very hard chapter to write and I'm sorry it took so long. I couldn't think of a good name for it. But I hope you like it anyway. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize. **

* * *

**BLACKBIRD**

**Chapter Twelve **

****~GEORGE~

George smiled.

'Whatya smiling at,' muttered John ill-temperedly. He looked like he was PMSing. 'Fuck you, George. Fuck you for being so goddamn happy all the time. It's because of that Leah bird, isn't it?' George beamed. The two months that they had been dating _had _put him in a good mood.

'John, what are you doing in my apartment?' asked George sweetly. 'You and Paul practically live here. At least Paul does it openly, with all his things here. You should pay me rent.'

John cast another dark glare at George and uttered another 'fuck you, fuck the world' under his breath. He stalked out of the apartment and slammed the door. Or attempted to - Leah caught it before it hit the frame. She shut it behind herself. John stuck his head in again, glared at her and slammed the door. 'That's better!' he exclaimed from the hallway. Leah shook her head, laughing. She didn't stop laughing - she walked unsteadily to the couch where George sat and collapsed, giggling, on the carpet in front of him.

'Hello there, Leah,' said George, amused. 'What's up?'

She giggled, trying to get a word in, but the laughter just kept bubbling out of her mouth, swallowing the words. Then all at once she became poker-faced and sat up straight. 'I'm done now,' she said, matter-of-factly.

'Are ya?' George looked at her warily. She nodded. 'He just reminded me of someone,' she explained, sitting on the sofa next to George.

'Who?' asked George curiously.

'My brother.'

'You have a brother?' asked George.

'Not by blood. But he was like my brother,' she said. 'You know, he had a mop top too. But it was much longer.' She looked thoughtful for a second. 'I should visit him sometime.'

'Can I come?'

'Sure,' said Leah absentmindedly, now playing with George's hair, 'He loves you guys.'

'Huh?'

'Uh. I mean, he would love you guys,' said Leah, calmly. George frowned and shrugged. She stood up. 'Where ya going?' asked George, 'You just came!'

'I need to get something from my room,' she said, walking towards the door. George jumped up and followed her, 'I'll come with ya.' She shrugged and he followed her up the stairs.

~LEAH~

Leah was cursing herself. She'd damn near given herself away - well ... even if she'd glossed over her mistake without George suspecting anything, she sure as hell couldn't let that happen again. It was way, way too dangerous. She'd almost let slip that her brother loved the Beatles, and how would she have explained that to George? The Quarrymen weren't famous enough for that yet. She'd gotten up to give herself a moment alone to calm herself down, but she figured it'd all be okay, and she did want to spend time with George. Because as much as Leah was against steady relationships, dating George proved to be nothing she'd feared: it was fun, effortless, and he was so sweet.

They both worked by day, but at night they went out dancing, or to dinner, or to do something fun, and nights they always spent together.

He lay, now, on her mattress, against the cushions, and picked up a book she'd left lying next to it. Leah caught her breath and glanced quickly at the cover - _The Catcher in the Rye _- and was relieved, because it was published in 1945, and wouldn't mention anything modern that George would wonder about. She had to be careful now, making sure she didn't leave anything suspicious lying around the apartment - none of her numerous music t-shirts, including some Beatles ones, nor any of her favourite books and certainly not her iPod or digital camera.

~GEORGE~

George flipped through the book; he'd read it, a little while ago, after his brother insisted that it was a work of brilliance. Remembering the strange book he'd found in Leah's apartment a while ago - the one with funny words he didn't know and its references to the future - though it might just have been fiction - he flipped to the first page, the one with all of the publishing details, and checked the year. Sure, it was written just a couple of years ago, a little over a decade. That was the date of the copyright. And then he looked closer, to the various dates of publication below it - different publishing houses and different editions - and this one was published in 2010. He would even have let that go if he hadn't flipped the page to the title and dedication page: on the top right corner, penned under the name _Stevie Willows_ in black, was the date _2011_. George remembered that name: it took a moment for him to recall that it was the name written on the back of a photograph he'd seen in Leah's apartment that first night they'd slept together.

He'd pondered this before; in passing conversation, Leah had mentioned a bunch of places she'd been to. And she never told him about those places directly, only mentioning a little bit about them, whatever was related to the conversation they were having, so he was sure she wasn't boasting, or making it up. She'd never told him about where she was from - he _still _couldn't figure out the origin of her caramel skin - and he barely knew about her past, where she'd been before she arrived in Liverpool one day and knocked on his door, asking him to kill a cockroach. He remembered _asking _her several times - but somehow the conversation would always lead around the answer without him realising it.

'Who's Stevie?' asked George, looking up from the book. Leah was sitting on the edge of the mattress, unlacing her boots. When she wasn't barefoot or in flats, she always wore huge combat boots. Leah glanced at the book in his hands. 'Girl I borrowed that book from,' she answered, kicking off the boots and lying on her back. George poked her side with his toe and she giggled, squirming away. 'Get out, your toes are cold.'

'What's she like?'

'Huh?'

'Stevie,' said George. 'Is she your sister?'

Leah shook her head, 'Don't have a sister.'

_No sisters ... so those pictures weren't of her sisters. Were they all of her? _George wanted so badly to ask, but she was answering his questions, even if very shortly. She never answered his questions. 'Then?'

'She's a friend. From New York,' said Leah. She wasn't really paying attention to him. She was drawing with a pen on George's toes. He wriggled them. 'Did you live in New York?' he asked.

'For a little while,' said Leah.

'What was it like?'

'It was fun,' she said, smiling. 'But it's a big city. Gets dangerous there, sometimes.'

'Did your parents live there too?'

'No,' said Leah. 'I had a roommate. My landlady chucked me out, though. She was a bitch.'

'Sounds like it,' said George, craning his neck to see what she was trying to draw on his feet. 'It tickles,' he giggled. 'Was that where you were before you came here?'

Leah nodded absentmindedly.

'Was that where you grew up?'

She shook her head. 'My parents traveled a lot, so there wasn't really any one place.'

'Did you ever go to school?'

'No, they homeschooled me, mostly. They were professors before they started traveling ... and they didn't travel after I was born till I turned four.'

'Did you like it? Always moving around?'

'I loved it,' said Leah, grinning, 'I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world.'

George sensed the past tense when she spoke about her parents. 'What happened to them?'

'They died,' she said. She didn't say it with the simplicity of time-brought acceptance, nor with the shortness that denied questioning, nor with the chokiness of a grief not yet over. He was spared from replying, because she continued, 'After that, I kept on traveling.'

'How old were you?'

'Ten, eleven? I don't remember.'

'All by yourself?'

'Well, I made friends most places I went to.'

'What happened to your parents? I mean, how did it happen?'

Leah didn't answer. Her face was set in stone.

'You can talk to me, you know.'

More silence.

'I promise, Leah, you can trust me! Have you ever trusted anyone, ever?'

George wasn't sure what his limits were. He probably wouldn't, not till he pushed them. 'Whatever your problem is with trust, I can help you get over it. I know you have secrets that you don't want to tell, and that's okay, I don't want you to tell me everything. But don't you trust me enough to talk to me a little?'

Well aware that he was probably past his limits by now, George continued, 'Like, who were those girls in the photographs? They all looked exactly like you, but their names were different. And what about those t-shirts with strange people on them - Bob Marley and Pink Floyd? What are those? I thought maybe I just hadn't heard of them, so I looked them up. Everywhere. And I couldn't find them anywhere. What is all of that, Leah? Why do you need to hide from everyone all the time? I love you for who you are and I don't care what your past is -'

'Shut up!' screamed Leah suddenly. She was standing, and she looked enraged. 'Shut up, George! Who the fuck do you think you are, looking through my stuff like that? It's none of your business, okay? I'll trust who I want to and if I don't want to trust anyone, I fucking won't!'

'How can you expect us to love each other if we can't even trust each other?' George found the strength to shout back, anger rising inside him too - did she think it was just okay to treat him that way, expect him to love her from so far away?

'I do trust you,' she said, her voice dropping. 'More than I've trusted anyone in a long, long time. But there are things in my past that I don't like anyone to know. They're things that aren't even a part of me anymore - not a part of Leah. They're different parts of another girl. And that girl's not here anymore.'

'Yes, she is,' said George. 'She's there, inside you. You think you've shut her out, but you've just shut her in. She's in there, she's a part of you. Stop trying to hide.'

Leah was crying now. 'No, she's not! She's just a fucking photograph! Why do you care anyway?'

'Because I don't want just Leah. I want the whole girl there, not just the one you let out. I want to love her and her past, too. Whatever it is.'

Leah just stood there, tears running down her face. George didn't know if she was still angry. He wondered if she was ever going to stop crying, but he knew better than to comfort her - she wouldn't let him touch her, he knew, when she was in a mood like this. He hated to see her cry and wished he'd just let the whole thing go. Finally she said, 'I'm sorry. But if I let everything out, it ... nothing will be okay. It's better this way. I'm sorry I couldn't give you more.' George stepped forward and wiped away her tears gently with his thumbs. She gave him a watery smile and then hugged him, hard. Then she took his hand and led him to the mattress, and made him lie down. He thought she was going to take off his clothes, but instead she covered him with a blanket, and whispered softly, 'Close your eyes.' She held his hand while he did, sitting next to him on the mattress. George wasn't sure what would come next. She was singing, softly, too softly for him to hear the words, but it was a beautiful tune, the kind, he thought, that sometimes drifted through his head when he played his guitar, or when he looked at her while she was sleeping. He could feel sleep rising up to take him, and his eyes fluttered open, but she whispered, 'Shh', stroking his face, and he shut them again.

Dimly, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, he registered a feeling - lips kissing his, so gently, and then moving away.

When he woke up, the next morning, the room was completely empty and she was gone.

* * *

**Long chapter, I know. Like seriously, what is up with Leah. She's a bit crazy. If a boy was ever so sweet to me as George is to her, I would just marry him. Even though I don't believe in marriage. Incidentally, a boy who I like very much recently told me that Something is his favourite song, and like in The Perks of Being A Wallflower, he plans to give an old 45 record of Something to someone who he thinks as as beautiful as the song, someday, when he finds her. (Which I've always wanted to do too) Valentine's Day is coming up, I really hope it's me! That would honestly be the second best thing, if I can't have George himself. Sigh. There's only one love song I like as much as Something - that's Layla. I absolutely love it. The story of Lalya and Majnun, too :O What's your favourite love song? I'm guessing most of you guys have good music taste, since you're reading this fic :D anyway, thanks so much for reading. For all the complaining and effort it takes me to put up another chapter, I really do love writing and reading your reviews. This isn't the end of the story, don't worry. love, Jen. **


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